


Love's Labor Lasting

by vivilove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow is Lord Commander of her Queensguard, Prophetic Visions, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, The plan is banging for an heir, but oops they wind up catching feelings for each other, mix of book and show canon, my horny affection-starved babies giving each other all the love they've been denied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: “I do not require wooing, Jon.”“But I think you do.  I think some seduction is in order, Your Grace...You’re not asking me to go slay a dragon or win a battle for you.  You’re asking for something simpler in one sense and yet infinitely more dear."**Or the story where Queen Sansa asks the Lord Commander of her Queensguard to help her give the North an heir after she has some prophetic visions but Jon decides she's getting some romance and seduction to go with it.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 226
Kudos: 497
Collections: Jonsa Valentine 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Jonsa-Valentine Event on Tumblr. 
> 
> This is primarily a post-show canon AU with some book canon thrown in where it suits me especially with regards to Jon’s character. I've happily dwelled in AU Land a majority of the time the past few years and this is hardly an original concept in the Jonsa fandom but I hope some of you will enjoy it 💕.

* * *

* * *

In the sixth year of her reign, Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, is embroidering with her ladies one day and minding her own business when a curious thing occurs.

She happens to be glancing out the window when two children run across the courtyard below, catching her eye. She cannot say why they should catch her eye in particular since there are plenty of children at Winterfell but they do.

Rising, she hurries to her window to see more of them; two boys close in age, one with dark reddish hair and one with black curls. They are sparing with wooden swords and having a merry time from what she can tell. Who are they? They’re not familiar and she’s sure she knows all the servants’ and guards’ children.

She asks her ladies to come over and look. “Whose children are they?”

“What children, Your Grace?” the eldest of them replies with some concern.

“The ones-”

But when Sansa looks back out the window, feeling mildly vexed that they cannot see the children which are plain as day, she gasps for they are no longer there.

“I…they must’ve scurried off,” she says, perplexed. Could they have left so quickly? Her back was turned but a moment.

The ladies resume their seats and Sansa tries to do the same but cannot. She dismisses her ladies, saying she has matters to see to other than embroidery now.

She takes a seat at her desk, thinking she’ll attend to some correspondences. But her eyes are continuously drawn to the window.

Giving up on work, she walks over to the window again to see if the boys have come out of hiding. They have! They are back with their swords and shouting boyish declarations at one another which she can barely make out through the glass.

“I’m Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight!” the dark-haired one cries loud enough for her to hear.

“Well, I’m Florian the Fool!” says the one with eyes so blue.

And something stirs within Sansa’s chest. It’s like an unfurling, something which has been slumbering, tightly coiled and safely tucked inside her heart for a long while.

Her eyes grow wet unexpectedly and, when she blinks away the tears, the boys are gone again.

She’s frightened by it but determines she will be rational. She’s seen far more troubling things than boys who are there and then are not. The boys are probably some visitors she’s not yet met. Their game is only that, a childish game.

The boy who claimed to be Prince Aemon…it is only a coincidence that he should look so very much like a Stark. And Florian with his Tully blue eyes was not, could not possibly have been…

One pitiful and unexpected sob escapes before she wipes her eyes and goes to seek the company of others, tucking the memories and at least one of her ghosts back into her heart again.

***

The following day, somewhat anxiously, she is alone again in the very same room. She has been here nearly an hour though and nothing strange has come to pass. But, whilst reading a letter from one of her bannermen, some flash of light from outside causes her head to turn.

With a thumping heart, she hurries to the window, curious to see what it will show her today.

It is not the boys with their wooden swords this time and at first she thinks there is nothing unusual to be seen.

But out in the courtyard, seemingly unnoticed by the various guardsmen and servants who are going about their tasks, stands a little girl with dark hair and grey eyes in a pretty though somewhat soiled dress. It is torn at the hem and Sansa would almost swear the child has been climbing a tree.

She is cradling a doll to her chest and looks up, her eyes meeting the queen’s. A small finger is raised to her lips as if she means for Sansa to be quiet. Then, she rocks the doll in her arms and Sansa would swear she can hear a lullaby being sung even through the glass.

Her head begins to pound and she clutches at her belly, crying out for a sharp pain assails her. The world turns black but, in the darkness, she would swear she hears a child’s voice whisper, _‘It’s time.’_

When she awakes on the hard stone floor, she’s blinking up at two concerned servants and the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, her cousin, Jon Snow.

“Sansa.”

The raspy way his voice caresses those two syllables, etched with dread and worry, makes her hair stand on end. Such mad, hopeless yearnings. 

One year, he’s been back. One year since she made the one decision of her reign that went against what the bulk of her bannermen wanted. She would not change it.

Though he has Targaryen blood and a potential claim to the throne, though he’d brought a tyrant into their midst and though he was complicit in her crimes to an extent, Sansa had never agreed with the Great Council’s decision to exile him at the Wall.

But a newly-made queen had a war-torn kingdom to put to order and alliances to strengthen first. So, she had watched and waited for her moment to bring him home again where he belongs.

When she had acted, she'd then chosen a role for him that would not give him so much power as to put her lords and ladies on edge but one which they would see he was well suited for. After all, who amongst the living is a more renowned swordsman than he? And, he has already protected her life more than once. He’s even killed for her.

“Sansa, are you ill?”

“I’m…”

She looks into Jon’s dark grey eyes and sees the little girl again, the one who brought Arya to mind.

She scrambles to her feet, rushing to the window. The girl and her doll are gone. The boys are not there either. Overwhelmed, she feels the floor rushing up to meet her but Jon is quicker. Her cousin’s arms close around her and she sags into his strength.

“The maester!” Jon barks at one of the servants.

“I think I just need some rest,” she protests but Jon has already lifted her up into his arms and is carrying her into the adjoining chamber where her bed awaits.

Even after her ladies and the maester arrive, Jon doesn’t leave her chambers. He stands guard by the door, watching but as silent as his direwolf.

Once the maester has examined her and agreed that perhaps some rest is all she needs and the ladies have seen to her comforts, she beckons Jon to her bedside. As unbelievable as it may seem, she knows now what the girl was telling her. The boys were as well. It isn’t rest she lacks. It's family. All of hers is dead or elsewhere, save Jon. 

These halls are full of people but had felt so empty to her before his return. Even now, the nights seem to stretch out endlessly at times. Ruling is her duty, serving the North is her life but must she be alone for always? 

Jon has sworn his sword to her but her Queensguard differs from the one she knew in Kings Landing. They do not have to be anointed knights (actually none of them are at present), they are not required to serve for life (if they wish to leave her service someday, they may), and they are free to marry and have families of their own if they so choose. 

But what if Jon leaves? She will not hold him here if he wishes to go. She doesn't know that he missed the Wall but he has friends there and among the Free Folk. He might someday choose to ride North and not return just as Arya has sailed away to have her adventures. 

Once Jon is seated gingerly at the foot of her bed, she softly says, "It’s time,” repeating the child’s words.

“Time for what?”

“The North needs an heir and the Starks were meant to endure.”

She hasn’t thought on having children seriously in a long while until today. She had recoiled at the thoughts of giving either of her husbands a child just as she had been sickened by the thought with Joffrey once she'd seen him for what he was. Even knowing heirs would be expected some day, yet another duty to perform in her current position, she had put it from her mind but the children she saw have changed things.

And suddenly, it is the dearest wish of her heart. Not some heir for some man and his house. _Her_ heir for _her_ house, a new generation of Starks. More importantly, a little babe to cherish. A child to raise, to protect, to teach and to love for always. 

Jon gulps and looks uncomfortable at her statement. “Were you planning to marry someone?”

She shakes her head. There are men she could choose from of course. Offers for her hand come regularly from across the North, across Westeros and even from across the Narrow Sea. Young men, old men. Princes, lords and knights. Men who have never married and widowers who have fathered a dozen children or more.

But after everything she’s suffered, she cannot picture taking a single one of them into her bed or surrendering any piece of herself to another stranger.

There is only one man she trusts for this but, while he may serve her, she cannot ask this as if it is some duty for him to perform. He must agree of his own free will or the children from the courtyard will forever remain nothing more than a wisp and what could’ve been.

“I do not know that I will ever wish to marry. Never again will I be forced into a loveless marriage for the sake of what gain it can bring my groom.” Jon seems saddened on her behalf but his eyes grow wide as saucers when she adds, “But I want a babe and I would like for you to be the father.”

***

_“I’m…me?”_

_“It’s a lot of me to ask, I know.”_

His heart had been pounding and he’s sure by the high color in her cheeks, hers had been as well as she’d related her tale of visions, of children who had favored him and Robb and Arya. He’d been on the verge of calling the maester back but she’d said two things which had stilled him.

_“The pack can’t survive if there’s never any pups. Bran cannot have children. Arya may not choose to.”_

_“But you may marry a prince or-”_

_“I am a queen now, Jon. Even more than before, I know that no one will ever marry me for love and I cannot bear the thought of being given to another man I care nothing for.”_

_“You’re a beloved queen. You wouldn’t be given to anyone, certainly not a man you didn’t want and in time perhaps you would-”_

_“I need someone I can trust. Someone who won't seek to supplant me. Someone who loves the North, its people and Winterfell. Someone who carries it in their veins as much as I do. I trust you and only you for this. The thoughts of another man who might mistreat me-”_

_“I would kill any man who raised a hand to you or forced you to-”_

_“I will not force you to do this, of course. It will be your choice and I will harbor no resentment if you say no but know that any child or children would know you as their father...that is, if you wish for them to.”_

Has she any idea how she tempts him, only offering him nearly all the dearest wishes of his heart? 

And her next words and the vulnerability in her eyes had fractured that splintered heart all over again.

_“You don’t have to love me. Love is not required for this, is it? Only one will do if that’s all you can bear to give but please think it over…for me?”_

No one will ever marry me for love? You don’t have to love me? 

Does she not know?

But how could she when he's buried it all for so long?

She doesn't know about the long nights of silent turmoil and self-loathing he’d suffered thinking he was mad or sick to dream the things he’d dreamt, the times he’d lashed out at her, wishing to drive her away when the sickness would be pumping through his blood, dragging him towards her like the ground calls for those without wings.

At least once he’d learnt the truth of his parentage, he could partly blame his father’s blood but by then it was too late. He'd chosen another path in his desperation and their burgeoning harmony and trust as well as his kingship had been utterly spoilt by it. 

After everything he’d done to drive a wedge between them, all the foolish and less than honorable things he’d done in his quest to save their people and after his greatest shame, for not stopping Daenerys when he’d had the chance before she’d murdered thousands upon thousands of innocents combined with the necessary duplicity he'd employed to end her reign for good and protect the only family he'd ever known from her, he’d felt that perhaps life at the Wall was perhaps too lenient a punishment for the likes of him.

But Sansa had still brought him home again.

He is not worthy of her but he serves her and he will do whatever he can to give her the things she wants in life though this was not something he’d anticipated at all.

_Like something Prince Aemon might've done for his sister-queen Naerys in a sense...except we're not in love._

There's a stirring of contention at that thought and he will say it is only due to the fact that he wants a happier ending for Sansa than that other queen. He cares for her very deeply and would wish to see her smile more often. The image of Sansa holding a little babe, _his_ child, with a radiant smile upon her face comes to mind and his heart gives a funny twist. He ignores that twist. This is not for him. It's for her. But what else might Sansa want? 

He ponders that for some time, remembering the girl he knew and thinking of the woman she's become, and makes up his mind about what more he can give his queen. 

***

A few days after that conversation, Jon had given his reply and she’d sought the maester’s advice.

The grey old man had concealed any signs of shock regarding his queen’s choice. He’d asked her some questions, asked to speak privately with Jon and then given some instructions for how best to ensure she conceives.

Tonight, Jon has assigned a trusted and discrete guardsman to her door and let it be known that he intends to spend some time in the queen’s solar and in her company. The Lord Commander expects that he and his cousin may engage in a few rounds of Cyvasse or speak by the fire as they’ve been known to do, remembering lost or absent family and happier, carefree days. And if anyone should ask when the Lord Commander left the queen’s chambers precisely, the guardsman will not recall.

Oh, they are both aware if she conceives there will be questions regarding the father and they have agreed to letting it be known. Jon's expression had pierced her heart most tenderly when he'd asked that his son or daughter know him as their sire. _"I_ _wouldn't want to leave them wondering who their father is. They should know who I am to them and that I love them."_

As queen, she will quell any disparaging remarks regarding bastards and go through the formalities of legitimizing her children if she must. 

_Or perhaps the queen will take an official consort?_

It could be done. Would Jon be willing to take that lesser title after being a king himself? Would he ever wish to marry at all? Does he care to be Jon Stark someday? She doesn't know anymore. That door was closed to him while in the Night's Watch and never seriously pursued in-between. After he'd learnt the truth of his birth, he'd been so wounded and distant. He doesn't want to be a Targaryen but how would he feel about taking the Stark name? 

Her chest aches at the thought of him rejecting the offer and she's growing more nervous. 

For now, it's best if they leave those questions to one side and nothing for the gossips. They’ll have enough to get along with.

_More than enough,_ she thinks, pacing before the fire.

She’s nervous, horribly so. She knows Jon will not hurt her, not intentionally anyway, but she’s terribly aware of the enormity of what she’s asked of him tonight. How could she treat it in such a cavalier manner up until now? She’s asked him to lie with her, to bed her, to get her with child...the man who she once only knew as her half-brother! What was she thinking?!

She’d been so fixated on the idea of the children, of a little babe in her arms, of the assurance that their family would carry on. What was she thinking believing she could go through with this act, this most intimate of acts, with Jon who does not love her as if it were nothing? And not just once but repeatedly no doubt until conception is confirmed.

_And you want more than one child!_

A quiet knock makes her yelp before she finds her voice. She’s still standing before the fire, hands twisted through her skirts when he steps in, closes her chamber door and bars it.

His back is to her, still fully dressed. So is she. Should she have stripped down to her shift first? She’d brushed her hair out but not managed to do anything more.

How does one do this? Surely, he will expect a little seduction. Or will he? She is not a brothel girl and he's probably having to steel himself to even want to touch her. _We grew up together. I called him my half-brother. His stomach is probably turning at the thought of doing this._

She blinks back tears as other thoughts come to mind. 

Her first wedding night was most unpleasant. Tyrion had told her to remove her clothes and climb upon the bed. She’d been trembling so and she knows he'd had women who probably appealed to him far more than a frightened maiden of an enemy house but the proof of his desire had been jutting out there for her to behold as he'd spoken of the darkness and the Knight of Flowers when all she'd wanted to do was hide and cry.

And her other wedding night…that nightmare does not bear thinking on at all if she's to go through with this.

“Would you like some wine or ale?” Her voice sounds so thin and reedy to her ears.

He’s been facing the door all this while but turns at her words and scowls. “I had enough ale at dinner.”

“Oh, yes. That’s…I believe I might have a little wine.”

She hurries to pour a cup, fumbles and knocks it over. Growing frantic, she begins to wipe up her mess with a nearby cloth. She only stills, heart pounding like mad, when his warm hand circles her wrist.

“Sansa, stop.”

“I don’t wish for it to-”

“No, I mean for you to relax and stop whatever all those thoughts are racing through your mind.” He takes the cloth and begins to wipe up the remnants of the mess. 

“You cannot read my mind,” she huffs, a begrudging smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

“No, but I know it rather well by now…though obviously you’re still quite capable of surprising me." He rakes a hand through his curls and smiles softly once the wine is dried up. "Come and sit by the fire. Let us speak first, alright?”

***

She is afraid, terrified even. She was shaking when she’d raised her eyes to his and nodded. He will not bed her tonight. He tells her as much.

“But why? I know you do not love me but-”

Why must she keep saying that? Why does he wish to make some argument when she does? 

“I’m not saying I will not lie with you at all, just not yet. When you are truly comfortable with it, then we will... _proceed_. Tonight, I want to put you at ease and then work towards wooing you.”

A soft snort of amusement. “I do not require wooing, Jon.”

“But I think you do. I think some seduction is in order, Your Grace.”

“I do not need pretty words.”

“That’s good because I don’t have many of those to offer.” She laughs knowing he speaks the truth. “You’re not asking me to go slay a dragon or win a battle for you. You’re asking for something simpler in one sense and yet infinitely more dear." 

A heartbreakingly bittersweet smile. "I know you won't hurt me but you don't have to go to any special effort for me." 

_But I might wish to and I think you want more than just your skirts rucked up and me to tumble you no matter what you say._

"May I not try to make this… _agreeable_ for you? I’ve sworn my sword to your life and your service. How can I say I’m protecting you if you’re trembling at my touch?”

An arched brow and smirk. “I’m not trembling now.”

“And I’m not touching you yet." That smirk scampers away. "And while making you tremble in one manner may be my ultimate goal, I do not mean like this.”

“Making me tremble in one…” 

Her cheeks grow pink and she bites at her lip so adorably. But then, her chin wobbles and her blue-blue eyes grow glassy. 

She's not been treated well, he knows it. He knows he's caused her pain amongst countless others, some of them very cruel. But he cares about her and wants to give her this in addition to the children she craves. She deserves some wooing and sweetness. She should know something of being bedded beyond rape and torment. She should experience joy and pleasure in it. And while he does not have as much experience as some men, he believes he can give her that. 

_I will woo you. I will bed you and make you tremble with ecstasy. I'll give you all the children you want if you wish. I would wed you if...but that could never be._

Why would she want to wed him? She's their queen, beloved by the North, and she's sister to King Bran who rules in Kings Landing while he is who he is. Jon Snow may still be loved by some but he's also the last Targaryen and despised for it among other things by many. And Sansa never mentioned marriage anyway, did she?

He looks down at his hands, giving her a moment to compose herself again as well as himself.

“How would we…begin?” she asks at last. 

“We will talk tonight like usual but you will sit closer to me.” 

Without warning, his booted foot hooks around the leg of the chair she sits in and give a sharp tug. She yelps but laughs as he’s pulled her closer to his own seat. 

“There now, very cozy.”

That pinkness is back in her cheeks. “What else?”

“I’m going to kiss you tonight when you’re ready.”

Eyes wide and intrigued. “How will you know I’m ready? Or what if I’m not?”

“I’ll know you’re ready when you’re sitting in my lap.”

Another huff and those eyes narrow threateningly. “And what makes you think I’ll sit in your lap tonight, Jon Snow?!”

“I have my methods, my lady.” 

***

_“It will be easier for you to see if you’re closer,”_ he’d teased, patting his knee. 

And hopeless fool that she is, she’d willingly sat down in his lap at that…because she’d found herself wanting to. 

“This is cheating,” she says, carefully parting each strand of hair. 

“How so? You did not have to look.”

“You knew I’d want to!”

He grins in reply, the fiend. He knew alright. 

He smells better than she’d anticipated. Did he bathe before he came to her? He must have. And how can he radiate so much warmth without his cloak on? So much softness through his leathers? So much promise with his dark eyes alone? 

_You wish to woo me?_ Oh, she thinks he’s more capable of that than he knows. If only he knew how greedily she’ll lap up any affection he’s willing to give her. His gentleness may be her undoing. It’d be so much easier to guard her heart if he was like the rest. But no. That’s not Jon. And that is why she chose him. 

They’ve spent the last hour talking and both are mindful that she’s grown comfortable again. He’d been right. She wasn’t asking him to slay a dragon but she’s asked for something far more dear...and intimate. 

If she’d simply wanted his seed, she could’ve lifted her skirts, spread her legs and let him rut into her with their eyes tightly closed. He could pretend she was someone else if he liked. He may anyway once they get to the actual act. How will she know? 

For that matter, if she had only wanted a man’s seed to fill her womb, she could’ve married again, any able man would do. But she knows her heart desires more, silly thing that it is, and she's not going to marry another stranger who does not love her, no matter how it may shock her court and kingdom. 

It’s true that just the thought of the act with Jon leaves her mildly titillated in a manner she wouldn’t expect but he more than anyone understands that lying back and letting him take her would not be entirely easy nor desirable either for her after everything. 

So, they'd talked and he’d brought up a long-forgotten, childhood incident as they had, another instance of her horrible brothers having a laugh at her expense. 

_“You were such asses sometimes.”_

_“Aye, we were,”_ he’d chuckled.

Robb had shouted and declared the bit of dyed batting a spider after placing it in her hair. She’d yelped and run and then stumbled, scraping her knee. Jon had caught up to her first, his boyishly hot and sticky palms checking her bloody knee and saying they were only jesting whilst he’d attempted to pluck the fake spider out of her hair.

“And you hauled off and whacked me with your book of poetry or whatever. A love story for the ages.”

She giggles remembering how shocked she’d been at her own very unladylike behavior. She’d only been eight. She remembers the trickle of blood creeping down his forehead from where the edge of the book had caught his scalp, too. 

“I cried,” she whispers softly, looking down for a moment. 

He smiles up at her, eyes resembling thick, black smoke. “I know. I felt awful for that. Were you crying over your knee, the pretend spider, us being asses to you or me bleeding?”

“All four, I think,” she says just as her fingertip finds the place. “Here?”

“Aye, the one and only wound you ever gave me, far fewer than Robb.”

“But this one left a scar,” she says, feeling saddened by the thought. She's surprised to find she wants to cry.

“No, no. No tears here, my lady.” 

His callused fingers graze her jaw, making her pulse jump. And why is it when he calls her 'my lady,' it makes her head spin? 

“It was but a little wound and one that I would smile at the memory of whenever my fingers would find it. After I joined the Night’s Watch and felt so alone or on the many other occasions when I thought that the life I’d lived as a boy was only a story I’d invented inside my head, I’d touch the scar hidden in my hair and remember it was real.”

“Once upon a time.”

“That sounds like the start of a good story, doesn’t it?”

“The very best sort of story.”

They share a quiet laugh. Her hand is still buried in his thick black hair. His fingers still touch her face. She trembles slightly but not from fear. She wets her lips, still gazing at him. _I’m ready,_ she thinks.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he husks, making her wiggle in his lap. 

She cannot even be embarrassed or uncertain about it all before he moves. The kiss is chaste at the start, just their lips meeting. But then he tilts her head, oh-so-deftly, with those callused fingers on her jaw and slots his mouth against hers and…explores. She doesn’t know how else to put it. 

Slow and careful and yet ravenous, like a wolf intent upon its meal, he devours her with that kiss, swallows her wanton little whimpers that keep escaping. His tongue is in her mouth, his lips mold to hers and occasionally, he nips at her with his teeth. He is a wolf. 

He wraps a strong arm around her waist, holding her in place. She twists his hair ruthlessly with one hand, making his mouth part wider for her, as she grabs at a leather-covered shoulder with the other, fingernails digging into the hide, sinfully wishing to sink them into his flesh instead. She is a wolf as well. 

A spark catches, consumes her, fills her, makes her ache. Her heart melts and expands, like an icicle tossed into a hot pan. Why did no one ever explain that kissing could be quite so… _this?!_ Shamelessly, she writhes in his lap, needing something, wanting more. 

And then he pulls back unexpectedly, his breath coming in short pants, cheeks flushed and eyes like hot coals. He seems to come back to himself, huffs a laugh and releases her. “That was a very good start, my lady.” 

Confused and breathless, she springs to her feet, not sure what comes next. He said he’d kiss her when she was in his lap and when she was ready. What now? Should she lift her skirts? Show him the mess he's made of her smallclothes with nothing but some kisses?

She feels herself flushing when he brushes her cheek one last time. She whimpers pathetically. 

“I believe this is where I should bid you goodnight, Sansa.” 

His voice is more of a croak than anything and his gait is stiff as he paces towards the door. He's leaving?! Oh, she doesn't know if she wishes to curse, fall to her knees at his feet or cry more! 

But at the door he turns and gives her another wicked grin and she cannot help grinning back. “Tomorrow night, I’ll return and I believe we’ll continue where we left off. That is…if you wish, my lady.”

“I…” It takes all of her years of acting a part to say it without begging. “Yes, that would be pleasant if you would, Jon. Goodnight.”

The instant the door is closed, she rushes to splash her face with cool water and wonders how she'll ever survive the hours in-between now and tomorrow night and whatever tortuous wooing awaits her then. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get smutty in Chapter 2 and fingers crossed I can get Chapter 3 done before too long 😅. Please let me know if you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and especially the kind comments on the first chapter! I'm currently battling COVID (mild so far though 🙏) and attempting to finish the final chapter so replies will be a little delayed but they're coming.

* * *

Four nights of torment follow that first kiss. Torment for himself at least and lots of kissing. 

They talk more and more as well, sharing more little bits of themselves and allowing this developing intimacy to grow even more than the one they'd previously shared. It’s odd that they could have grown up in the same castle and yet still have things to learn of each other but there it is. Perhaps that’s owing to the very separate sort of lives boys and girls are raised to lead and that neither Jon nor Sansa had strayed much from what was expected of them as children or even wished to. And of course, the years spent apart had left lasting marks and impressions. 

But after a period of talking, she’s quite eager for the kissing part to begin each night now so the wooing seems to be having some effect. 

She smiles more frequently even when others are around. He does not think he imagines that and it gladdens his heart to see it. He hopes he may partly be the reason why. She loves her ladies and has some men in her service she turns to for advice but she was more reserved when he'd returned than she'd been in the past. Far fewer smiles and carrying a great deal of burdens. Whoever thinks wearing a crown is easy has never worn a crown. 

And perhaps he smiles more as well. He caught himself whistling earlier in the training yard. The other men had stared at him strangely until he'd mentioned trying something new to get Ghost's attention...as if a warg needs to whistle for his wolf. 

They take nearly every meal together lately. Before he'd felt uncomfortable imposing on her much sought-after company after all the trouble he knows she went through to bring him back here without having some rebellion on her hands. 

But now, he knocks and enters her solar freely as she breaks her fast and, when she asks him to sit beside her at the high table in the Great Hall, he does so without fear of any jealous glance or whispers. There's still some of those but he keeps a close eye on any who might mean his queen harm and these are nothing beyond the usual handful of grasping supplicants who wish to curry the most favor with her. 

He thinks she enjoys that they can break bread together and talk, that Jon doesn't have some agenda to discuss or request to make of her. A meal can be a meal and not a negotiation. He knows how tiresome that gets. But there's none of that with the two of them. They've already struck an agreement of sorts but they're also family. 

_We're going to be making one, too._

That thought sends a shiver of desire shooting through him, desire to know Sansa in that manner and desire to have something he'd never dreamt he could have. _Soon but not yet._

He’s been secretly plucking the glass gardens clean of winter roses and ferreting them to her chambers when no one’s looking. He thinks two of her maids are on to him though. He carries them under his cloak but a few petals have managed to escape him leaving a trail in his wake. 

Once he was present when she discovered them. Her unguarded smile had made his belly tighten up in an unanticipated manner.

_“This is part of your wooing, is it?”_ she’d asked haughtily though her smile had been fighting to reappear.

_“Does it work? Are you moved by my paltry offerings?”_

_“We have the finest winter roses in the North here. I will not have you calling them paltry.”_

_“Aye, you’re right but they are not so lovely as you.”_

_“You mustn’t flatter me like some weak-headed girl.”_

_“No, that would never be my intent. I’ve known weak-headed women, hungry for praise. You are not that. I’ve spoken false flattery when it served my cause but, you must know, I speak only truths to you, Sansa.”_

It's true. He does not lie to Sansa. A thousand lies over the course of his lifetime perhaps, some told to kings, some to queens, some to men and some to women but only the truth for her. _Does it mean something?_ he'd wondered before shoving the question from his mind. 

He’d let his hand graze hers and his stare linger. She’d trembled slightly at his touch before saying the roses would look best by the window. Which sort of trembling had it been? He's hoping the sort he thinks. 

Today, during a council meeting when Lord Glover was rambling on, he’d repeated that gesture, his bare hand finding hers under the table where they sat, tickling her palm. Her cheeks had been so rosy even as she’d been replying to the lord. She'd caressed his palm in reply at one point and it felt like his heart had given a strange leap. Foolishness on his part. 

But tonight, he thinks she’s actually ready for more than kissing. Oh, she claims she’s ready for it all but he still sees the fear lurking like a shadow in her eyes. He wants to banish her shadows and see only the light when he finally loves her beneath her furs. 

So, he’ll keep tormenting himself…and perhaps tormenting her as well. 

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course, you can. Have you never found pleasure, even alone?” He may dig up some corpses and murder them again and rail at the gods while he's at it. 

“I..." She blushes so pink. He loves it. "Perhaps I have but not like this. Never with another and...this is not ladylike.”

She ducks her chin and he won't have it. He tips that chin back up so she'll look at him when he says, “In these chambers, in the night, when it is only you and I, you can do anything, my lady.” He nips at her kiss-swollen bottom lip to emphasize his words. 

The blush deepens and a smile appears. “Why do you call me that when you've always called me Sansa or Your Grace since your return?”

“Because you’re my lady when we’re here.” He lightly touches his chest, right above his heart, not even knowing why but the gesture seemed to fit the words to him. 

“You make no sense.”

“I’ve been told as much a few times. Come on now. Like a horse.” 

He is only wearing breeches and shirt and she is in her shift and a dressing robe for her modesty. A little less fabric between them tonight and no leather. She's said she feels more comfortable dressed...for now. 

He spreads his thighs and sees her fighting that little battle of what’s proper inside her head. Her curiosity wins out. “Do I face you or-”

“Your choice.”

“I’ll face you. I do not like…” She dips her chin again. “I would not like you behind me when we…I do not like being taken that way.”

His fingers stroke her petal soft cheek and she raises her chin once more. He sees the shadow of that monster he hates in her fear and understands. “Never from behind then, not unless you someday wish to try it with me. I promise we'll do nothing abed you don't wish to,” he assures. 

Smiling somewhat self-consciously, she straddles one muscled thigh then and words become more difficult for him. He does manage to give her simple instructions though; move as if she’s riding and see if it's pleasant. Also, she's to kiss him, she's to lose herself in the kisses if she can.

A little awkward at first but her sweet fragrance fogs his mind and they've grown used to kissing by this point. 

“Jon,” she breathes as the rocking movement of her hips becomes more steady, grows more sure. That one syllable falling from her lips almost makes him shudder. She hums and rocks some more. “Oh…it’s good,” she tells him, clearly surprised. The gods do indeed have much to answer for and he intends to make all their errors up to her. 

“You taste good. I'll bet you taste good everywhere." He intends to find out when she's ready for it.

He combs his fingers through her lush, soft hair, one of his very favorite things to do now, and Sansa’s mouth opens more fully to his probing. She tests out exploring his mouth in return. Her inexperience does not bother him. It seems to stir him even more. She gets better and better at kissing but her obvious pleasure in it makes him happiest. 

He begins to kiss her neck next and his lips are nearly tingling as if she’s a spicy morsel. His hand slips up her side, cups one of her round, firm breasts through her shift.

“Oh…oh…”

"Yes or no?" he asks. Choice is not something she's had much of so he intends to give her that always along with his wooing. 

"Yes..." she sighs, leaning towards him so he may fully feel the weight of one in his hand and then the other. 

Her movements become more rapid and a touch frantic so his free hand tightens on her hip, guiding her, tipping her forward a little for her bud to find that friction she might not realize she craves. He holds her to him, encourages her to grind down hard if she pleases, filthy words spoken in whispers. 

He’s sucking the little patch of skin beneath her earlobe when she starts to shudder and gasp and flail. “I can’t, I can’t, I-”

“You can. You will. Come for me, Sansa,” he commands, his voice low but brooking no argument.

She does, her thighs squeeze his tightly as his warm hand tweaks and lightly pinches her nipple. Her eyes shut and her mouth is wide open as bolts of pleasure ricochet through her. He’s never felt more like a king than he does in this moment watching Sansa peak. The rush is overwhelming and his own eyes screw up closed and he pants her name. 

As she drifts back down though, he peppers her with light kisses, murmuring, "That’s right, my sweet lady. There you are.” 

She rests her head on his shoulder for several moments after and he holds her close, inhaling her scent and reveling in her softness. 

“Are we going to now?” she asks at last, her eyes still hazy.

He’d like to very much but…

“Tomorrow, if you feel ready, we’ll go a little further, alright?”

“Further but not all? More wooing and seduction, is it?”

“Perhaps. There is much for you to experience, my lady. I would show you all of it if you will allow.”

Blushing, she whispers a ‘yes, please’ and rises a little unsteadily. 

He brushes at his breeches, smirking internally at the dampness there before considering that it’s not the only dampness. His smallclothes need changing. _Like a fucking green boy?!_

Somewhat vexed at himself, he stiffly walks from her chambers to his own again.

***

She’s in her shift alone tonight and she quivers the moment he enters her chambers. She’s been wound so tight all day after those dizzying releases the past three nights. She craves that feeling again like a drunk might crave wine. She wonders if Jon might ever crave her. Surely, he wants his own release at least. 

“Will you join me here tonight instead?” she asks nervously as she points to the bed. 

All this sitting in his lap or shamelessly riding his thigh is fine but her womb will not quicken with those pleasures alone. He wants to woo her for some reason, to please her, to give her some seduction. He’s succeeded. Surely, he must want to find some satisfaction as well. 

_You don't have to love me. You can pretend I'm someone else if you must._

She cannot say those words now. They make her chest hurt. She swallows them down and gives him a tremulous smile. 

“I will join you on the bed,” he answers, striding towards her before he takes her hand and brings it to his mouth. His moustache tickles her soft skin. “But I will only make love to you if that is what you want, Sansa.”

“I want…I _think_ I’m ready.”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. His brow is furrowed when he asks, “Did you see the children again?”

She shakes her head. She’s not seen them since before the night they had kissed the first time. She’s not sure if that’s more reassuring or worrisome. "Did I imagine it all? Do you think I'm mad?" she whispers. 

"No, I know you're not," he says with such conviction. He tenderly frames her face, kisses one cheek and then the other before nuzzling at her ear. Oh, how he makes her heart thump wildly when he does. "Sansa, you're still young. We're both are. The visions may have spurred your wish for children again but don't think you must do anything immediately because you saw them. We'll make a babe together if the gods allow but we'll do that when you're ready. Are you truly ready tonight?"

“You don’t have to protect me or shield me or-”

“I believe I swore a vow to do all of those things. Not just as your lord commander but from the night we reunited.”

“You only said you’d watch over me, that our way would lie together.”

“And in my head, I said all the rest. I’ve said it a hundred thousand times in my thoughts and in my actions since then. I hope you know that.”

“I do.” 

“Alright then. Do you really wish for me to make love to you tonight?"

Slowly, she shakes her head. She hates that she's still hesitating but she's not ready tonight. 

"But you might enjoy some more lessons?" he asks with a saucy look. 

She nods eagerly at that, making him laugh.

"Will you lie back on the bed?”

“Must I remove this?” she ask, tugging at the shift.

“Only if you want. I can teach you with it still on if you prefer. I may ask to slide it up some.”

She nods, grateful for his words. She has some scars, none so ghastly as his, but they are there and, deep down, she knows she would be frightened of him seeing them and what he might think. Would he still find her pretty? As pretty as other women he's known? Does he even think she is? Someday perhaps she'll find the courage to ask. Someday perhaps she'll remove her shift for him.

With her shift still on though, she lies back upon the bed and watches him remove his sword belt and jerkin and then his boots. “Shall I remove my shirt tonight?”

“Only if you want to.”

She wants to see him. She's admittedly quite curious but will not force him to bare himself any more than he would force her. 

He removes his shirt with his back turned to her. His back and shoulders, they're well-muscled and draw her appreciative eye. There is beauty to be found in men as much as women in their own way. 

But she can tell he’s taking a few deep breaths. There's some tension building there. Perhaps men worry about what a lady will think of them as well. 

Then, he turns and her eyes fall to his chest. She’d only caught a few glimpse of his scars during their travels on their quest to regain Winterfell. She'd always been respectful of her half-brother's privacy then. Her heart clenches painfully seeing them for the first time so clearly. It’s awful. How could anyone have hurt her Jon like that?

“I’m very sorry that happened to you, Jon.” 

She hopes he can hear the sincerity and affection in her words and that she doesn’t sound like someone who’s merely fascinated by the fact he still breathes. 

When her eyes meet his again, she sees softness in them and the tension from earlier seems to have slackened. “I’m going to kiss you first and then kiss you some more places.”

“What does that mean?” she chuckles as he climbs up the bed beside her, smiling. 

He’s immediately nipping at her lips in that arousing way of his. “You’ll soon see, my lady.”

Oh, she does. It shocks the breath out of her, and for a moment, she's certain that her heart is going to stop beating.

“Are you alright?” he asks hoarsely several minutes later, his lips obscenely glistening and his eyes somewhat smugly glancing up at her from between her thighs. 

Feebly, she nods and her heart doubles its pace when he lowers his head again.

There’s a thick strand of her copper hair wrapped around one of his fists. She stares at it and the ceiling but it’s not long before she's back to watching him again, equally scandalized and aroused by this method of 'kissing.'

He’d started with kissing her lips and her throat. He’d kissed as much of her bare chest as the shift would allow and then suckled both of her breasts through the fabric, leaving wet patches for her taunt nipples to show themselves and waking a tremendously needful throb lower. 

One of his hands had worked its way up her thighs beneath the shift to find the center of that throbbing ache. He’d softly cupped her womanly mound, applying pressure in just the place she’d needed as he returned his attention to her breasts. 

She’d been utterly helpless and bewitched, squirming, begging, singing his name as he'd lathed one breast and then the other, his fingers busy below, until the whiteness took her to that higher plain of being. 

And he’d not been finished with her yet. 

He snuffles at her knees, kisses his way up her thighs, gently lifting the shift. And she, his increasingly eager pupil, lifts it all the way up to her belly, exposing her dark red curls and womanhood to him with minimal concern, inviting him to do what he will to her.

She feels herself melt beneath the ministrations of his tongue. If she were a cat, she'd be purring. But she’s a wolf so she softly growls, “More.”

He takes another slow swipe at her folds. She gasps and her hips buck. He grins, her wolf. Open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting out to taste her skin and her juices. She's mortified just thinking the term but it's true. She's wet and knows he's the cause. _Consider me thoroughly seduced, my lord._

Taking a shaky breath, she tries to gather the scattered remains of her wits but it’s no use so instead she takes hold of his hair roughly and centers him…there.

“ _Unn…unn_ …please…”

Jon groans in reply, grinds his thickened manhood along her shin but keeps his focus on his task, this wooing...this seduction…this delightful torment. 

He licks and teases, a slow glide that threatens to break her to pieces. She lets out a choked, high-pitched noise and bucks against his face, so he lays one forearm heavily across her hips and hums. That hum alone makes her wetter.

He buries his face between her legs, groaning loudly like she really does taste as good as he claims. His beard prickles and yet she doesn't mind it. Everything he does feels good. Soon, he finds a spot, _the_ spot. Ecstasy begins to rip through her, makes her squeal his name and writhe beneath him. 

He clamps down his hold on her, refusing to let her escape the finish. She cannot draw him away from his purpose with all her mewls and pleas. He focuses on that little apex of her folds, her little nub, flicking his tongue over it again and again. That strange and wonderful pressure builds until she’s spiraling up above this castle, higher than any bird might fly.

“Jon…Jon…JON!”

When he slips first one and then two fingers inside her, curls them just a touch and wraps his lips over her nub once more and sucks, the tension in her fully breaks, and the bird is soaring, cresting, falling.

It feels like she’s laid there a long while, trembling and perhaps whimpering a bit. She comes back to herself when she feels another jolt of sensation between her legs, looks down and realizes Jon is still nuzzling and lapping softly at her sex. 

“What are you doing?” she giggles. Doesn't he want to lay with her now? She'd expected him to climb over her and see to his pleasure after all of this. 

“Supping at my lady love’s cunt,” he says, grinning like a demon with black eyes.

_My lady love._

Suddenly, it’s too much and her blood runs cold. This wooing, this seduction, it's having an unforeseen effect. She'd only asked for a babe, knowing he doesn't love her. Is her heart the price she must pay? 

Scrambling upright, she scoots backwards to the head of her bed, shoves her shift back down.

“I think that’s…I think that’s all I can handle tonight,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t sound as shaky as she fears, hoping he will not hear the heartbreak in it. He loves her but could he ever _love_ her? 

Realizing something is amiss, he sits back on his heels and stares at her. “Sansa, have I hurt you or frightened you? Are you disgusted by-”

“No! It’s just…I’ve never…don’t get me wrong, it was lovely. No, that's not right."

"It wasn't lovely?"

"It was and it was better. Much better than just lovely! I don't have the right words for...I had heard of such things but had no idea it could be so…” 

She hopes her blush is enough to convince him and he won't guess the truth.

_Yes, you did frighten me but only because I’m afraid of losing myself to this wooing, afraid of you breaking my heart when you tire of it and look elsewhere._

"I think I need a little time to myself now," she adds, a strangely distant tone in place to guard her heart.

Nodding slowly, he reaches for his shirt and sits on the edge of the bed. "As you wish, Your Grace."

Your Grace? Oh gods, how she hates that title coming from him now! _Call me your lady again instead,_ she wants to weep. _Your lady alone._

She's asked for him to get her with child and yet she never meant to make him feel like a whore. She’s ruining this! She doesn't want him to go and yet she does need time to sift through her thoughts. She doesn’t know how to un-ruin things. 

“Do you want me to come to you tomorrow night?” he asks once his boots are back on. 

His eyes are on the door and hers prickle with tears. “Please, come back tomorrow night, Jon. I promise I’ll be…I’m sorry. Please, don't be hurt or angry.”

He turns back towards her and there’s his sweet smile again. He takes a seat upon the bed, cups her face. "Never say you're sorry...not over anything we do here, alright?" Perhaps she _can_ un-ruin things. "We're alright, aren't we? You and I?" 

_Are we?_ She isn't sure but she wants them to be. “We're alright, we are. I did not know I could experience that much pleasure all at once. I think I need a little time to myself as I… _adapt_."

The wicked grin is back. "Of course. It's new to you, I know."

"Tomorrow I’ll be…”

“Tomorrow, you’ll be you and I’ll be me and one of these nights, when you are truly ready, we'll try and make a babe. I only want to make you happy, Sansa.”

“You do. You’re making me very happy.” 

He rises again, gives her an unnecessary but whimsically sweet bow and departs.

And, Sansa is left alone with her jumbled emotions and thoughts, cursing herself for falling when she'd never meant to. 

***

A few nights later finds them alone in her chambers again and on the bed with Jon hovering above her anxiously. 

“Are you sure?” he asks for the _third_ time. 

And involuntarily, it makes her tense up again, dreading the pain she's come to expect from this.

"Look at me, my lady," he says softly now. "We don't have to do this tonight."

"We should...can't we just get on with it?" she huffs in her fear and vexation. 

He frowns. She's back to ruining things. Why does he persist in being so sweet? 

"I'm sorry. I'm nervous is all."

"I know you are. It's alright."

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax before spreading her legs a little wider. He kisses her forehead and then reaches down to take himself in hand, giving himself a few strokes. 

She's curious about his body but cannot see him well. She'd wanted to leave on her shift on again and he'd not removed his shirt this time. Some wine, some relaxation and some conversation but that old fear has been building the past several minutes when she'd suggested they move to the bed, when she'd plainly said she wanted them to try and make a babe tonight. 

He'd been preparing to do the same as he had the other night, to kiss her 'down there' as he'd put it, but she'd refused. She's a fool to deny herself pleasure probably but he'd wound up making her feel more vulnerable than she'd anticipated, too needy for his loving. She's allowed her heart to get tangled up in this, in wanting all of him, when all she'd set out to ask for was a babe. 

He guides himself inside, pushing slowly. She still gasps at the invasion but it doesn't hurt like she'd remembered. Of course, it doesn't. It's not as if all women experience pain every time they engage in intimacies. He's not raping her, he's making love to her and there's a vast world of difference. She feels such a novice when it comes to all of this and secretly she fears it will make her seem _less_ somehow to Jon. 

“You alright?” he asks roughly.

He sounds like he's in pain. Oh, her fingers are knotted through his hair quite tightly. He's wincing and she lets go. 

"Yes. I'm sorry."

He kisses her cheek. "It's alright. You're alright." He's always so assuring. No one else protects her in the myriad ways he does. 

She takes a shallow breath as he pushes forward. His eyes are on her. "More. You can give me more."

A strained smile and he closes his eyes, sinks fully inside her. He groans quietly and his lips brush her shoulder.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and focuses on breathing. Once she's feeling more comfortable, she opens her eyes to find him gazing at her. She gives her hips an experimental rock.

"Seven hells..."

Her eyes widen at his expression and then they're both chuckling. Gods, she can feel those chuckles everywhere. 

"Am I...is it...do I feel alright?" she asks, self-consciously. 

"You're perfect." His eyes are sincere and the laughter has faded from them. 

They kiss then and keep kissing. He'd said kissing was the right place to start and he's correct. The distraction helps her as his tongue sweeps into her mouth and dances with hers. His fingers begin to card through her hair so lovingly. _If only you might love me._ She chides herself for the pointless thought. 

Her own hands begin to explore the contours of his back, shoulders and chest through his shirt. She wants to feel his hot skin beneath her palms. She should've suggested they remove their clothes after all. Why must she be afraid? 

When they break apart from kissing, he starts thrusting, slowly withdrawing and then entering her again. Sansa shudders at the intensity of it. It's a little too sharp to be pleasure just yet but it's not pain either.

He pushes back in and she lets out a long breath that she hadn't realized she was holding. After a few more slow and deliberate thrusts, the intense feeling either lessens or she's growing used to it. By the time he's pushing back into her for a fourth time, she lifts her hips to meet his movements. She welcomes the way he fills her. 

He looks down at her, smiling, and her heart gives another twist. She leans up, wanting more kissing to go with this. He returns her kiss and starts to move a bit faster.

They find their rhythm and Sansa starts to feel an echo of that pleasurable tension she'd experienced with his earlier lessons in seduction. This is not the same as that but it feels good.

"This feels good," she says aloud to let him know it.

"Aye, it should. And I'm glad," he says though he's panting a bit. "Sansa...I would like to go a little faster if I may."

He's been so good to her, given her so much pleasure when he'd not had to do all of that. It's only right that he might wish to lose himself in the act. The actual finishing had never taken the other one that long. Once he was done hurting her, he would finish within a minute or so. Aren't all men the same in that respect?

"Go faster," she tells Jon, finding herself eager to see how ecstasy sits upon that beloved face. 

And when he does and her hips keep bucking up to meet his, she feels something inside her start to seize up like before but differently. Jon must feel it as well because he curses, grips one of her hips and his rhythm starts to stutter.

"Gods, gods... _fuck_ , Sansa..."

She should be shocked by his cursing but she's not. It makes her pulse thrum and her hand slithers down between them to find her little nub again. 

His eyes widen, his nostrils flare when he sees what she's about. "Fuck." She starts to withdraw but he shakes his head and huffs, "No, do it. Do that... _gods_." 

The sensation combined with that of him filling her makes her head fall back, lips parted. There's a ringing in her ears. She doesn't think she'll reach her peak but it's adding to her enjoyment.

He swears once more and the thrusting is now a hard, steady pace; jostling her, pounding into her but it doesn't hurt. It's a sweet ache instead. There's something terribly naughty and seductive about it all; the sounds of his labored breaths, the slaps of flesh meeting flesh and the creaking of the bed. The room smells of musk, of sweat, of lovemaking. 

"Jon..." 

"Fuck, fuck... _unnf!"_ A final thrust and he stills with a deep groan.

He collapses on top of her with a grunt and she can feel the warmth of his seed filling her. _Perhaps a babe_ , she thinks as her eyes grow a little moist.

"Sorry," he says gruffly, lifting up onto elbows.

Part of her wanted him to move but more of her liked the weight of him upon her. She'd never expected that. She used to feel trapped like that but not with Jon. His body is warm, hard muscle but soft skin. It makes her feel safe and secure.

He sees the hint of tears and he's in agony at once, she can tell. "Oh, Sansa. I'm sorry if I-"

"No, no. I'm fine. More than fine. It was..." Her cheeks hurt from the smiles and laughter that form. 

"Passable?" he asks, playfully.

"More than passable. Lovely. Wonderful. I...thank you."

"You'll make my head swell," he teases before kissing her forehead gently. He looks abashed when their eyes meet again. "I promise I can last longer than that. It's been...gods, it's been a long, long while and you were..." 

She glances up at him. He can go longer? Oh, she thinks she'd like that. And what was she?

"I was what?" she asks, shyly.

"Beautiful, perfect. The sweetest thing, sweeter than any peach." His cheeks pinken. "Tight and warm and wet and everything." 

She buries her face in his neck, smothering giggles of shock and delight. 

He squeezes her tightly in return and then huffs. "I suppose I should probably go." 

Oh yes...this part. He'll be returning to his chambers. It's not as late as some nights but it doesn't matter, does it? This is why he came. His goal has been accomplished. He's given her his seed and it didn't hurt or make her feel lesser. And yet, she wants more. 

But he is not her husband and they are not in love. Well, she is in danger of it but that's her own affair. He doesn't want to stay, does he? 

"I hope you rest well," she says, proud that her voice doesn't quaver one bit. 

"I'm fairly certain I'll be asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow." He leans down and presses one last kiss to her lips. "Goodnight, my lady."

"Goodnight. Will you come tomorrow night?"

"Aye, as many nights as it takes." 

**

He had fallen asleep not long after his head hit the pillow but he’d awoken an hour later consumed with panic. A nightmare filled with dragon’s fire, blood and Sansa’s red hair dripping with sweat as she cries out in pain. Visions of blue rose petals and the ice blue eyes of the dead. 

_I'm afraid of losing her,_ he'd realized. Yes, he's long wanted to keep her safe but the prospect of her dying still haunts him more frequently than he readily admits and the chance of that in childbed...it does not bear thinking on. 

He’d felt Ghost’s cold, wet snout nuzzling him, comforting him as he’d laid there willing his heart to slow down again. He’d stroked the white fur and found some peace again. _Her mother had five children. She won't die, she won't die. Gods, don't let anything happen to her._

Trying to focus on something else other than fears beyond his control, he’d allowed his mind to wander back to earlier in the night, the taste of her, the sweet noises she’d made and the delightful way her cunt had gripped his cock. Those had been far more agreeable thoughts with a predictable result. 

Ghost had snorted and went to lay back down at that point, not that Jon would blame him.

But then, he’d wound up wide awake, not from budding lust but from heartfelt yearning. Why is he such a fool? 

He’d thought he’d grown better at keeping his heart separated from this after Ygritte. He’d only been a boy then. That boy had died at Castle Black and something between a man and a wolf had returned. He’d learnt how to play this game of hearts better after that, he’d thought. _Oh and that other affair went so spectacularly well for you, didn’t it?_ he’d sourly reminded himself. 

It is different though. She’s asked him for this but she’s not coerced or threatened him, telling him freely he didn’t have to and she would hold no grudge. She wants something from him but she’s not putting other lives on the line to get it. And the thing she’s asked for isn’t an oath or a crown or obedience. It’s far more precious.

_She is far more precious._

She is. That’s the trouble. Those old desires from before he knew the truth haunt him and now he’s been let into her life in an entirely new way. Five years apart after the wars' endings has erased more of that strangeness he’d felt over their presumed familial ties and now he only sees Sansa, not the younger half-sister she had been. He imagines she could be his wife.

_Madness. It's madness on your part to want more. You know what she’s asked for. She’s accepted the wooing to go with it but that doesn’t mean she’d ever want you. Why would she? A broken shell of a halfling like you, best you lay such thoughts aside._

The next morning, Jon mulls over the conversation he’d had with the maester before this had started. In addition to the older man’s somewhat probing questions regarding the ability of a man returned from the dead to father children, he’d wanted to be sure Jon was mindful of certain things. 

_“I was here at Winterfell under the Boltons, my lord. You know how that man treated her?”_

He knows too well and does not blame the maester for his queries. 

_“I know.”_ He knows all that Sansa has been willing to share, that is. The rest she can tell him if or as she chooses.

Even as a warg, capable of putting his mind and conscience into a wolf, Jon cannot begin to understand what makes a man like Sansa’s second husband, a beast in human skin. 

_“Some gentleness and patience would be advised, I believe.”_

_"That is my intention. I wish to give her all she’s been denied.”_

He’s trying to give her what she needs, to show her that there can still be romance and beauty in this world despite all the wretched things they’ve both seen and lived through. 

_“There is a good deal of that, I’m afraid. She had much to occupy her and few to confide in. I know she felt very lonely after her return from Kings Landing and once she was coronated.”_

Jon had twisted with no small amount of guilt being reminded of that. His short-lived kingship had included Sansa by his side as well as his Hand. But the recovery, the rebuilding and the governance of the North had fallen on her slim shoulders alone after the defeat of the Others and the disastrous war of the power-mad to the South. 

Sansa cannot be a friend to all because that is not how ruling works but she is much beloved and those closest to her see that she is a wise queen as well as a good one. But how damned lonely it must have been for five long years on her own. 

The old man had laid a hand upon his shoulder at that point and said, _“Since you’ve returned, she is happier.”_

_“Is she?”_ He’d wanted to believe it. 

_“She is.”_

He’s trying. Gods know, he is. But, he’s still managed to falter some even as they’ve gone farther. Yet, for all he knows, he may have got her with child last night. 

It’s odd how he’d lived in fear of fathering a bastard for so long and yet he does not mind this arrangement with her. She will legitimize any child or children and they will have the name that was never Jon’s. He might have it too if she were to decide to marry him.

_No, you cannot expect that. What if someday she does find another? Someone she actually loves?_

Before he can grow too morose over that thought, a guard comes up to tell him of a band of broken men raiding nearer Cerwyn. 

He hails a passing servant. “Tell Her Grace I’m riding out to help and will return by nightfall.”

He is late getting back and injured when he does.

**

“It’s nothing, Sansa.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” she snaps, wringing out a bloody cloth. 

The maester offers him milk of the poppy. Sansa stands there with her hands on her hips until he relents and agrees to half the dose. Her hands are still on her hips, her red hair hanging down, looking fetchingly bedraggled compared to normal, and she wears a fearsome (and adorable) scowl. The maester gives up arguing and gives him the half dose. 

“Keep it clean,” the old man advises of the wound and then leaves them be. 

Sansa goes to the door and asks for a tub and hot water to be brought to the lord commander’s chambers. 

“Who says I’m taking a bath?”

“I say!”

“Very well, Your Grace,” he says, secretly pleased by her firmness...and secretly aroused as well. 

She doesn’t leave once the steaming water is brought. She is no longer looking so piqued. “Does it pain you much?”

She’s worried about him. She cares that he is wounded even though it’s a slight one compared to others he has known. 

“It is not so bad. I was more sorry that we lost a man.” One of the younger guardsman had rushed ahead and got an arrow through the eye for his enthusiasm. 

She sits on the chest at the foot of his bed and hangs her head. “I am sorry for that as well. I wish I could make it otherwise. I have spoken to his mother and we will see to all her family’s needs. The guards who went with you today have been excused from their duties for the time being while they all recover. I cannot ask them to walk the ramparts or go and fight when they are tired and grieving, too.”

“War doesn’t allow for such luxuries, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps not but we are not at war and my soldiers need time to recover if it can possibly be given.” 

She cares about him, cares about those who serve their house and about all their people. She's too good for him but he serves her. 

“It was not my place to go out today. As head of your Queensguard, my place is near you, not skirmishing with rag-tag bands of broken knights.”

“But you went because you are you,” she says, allaying his guilt. “And now, brigands who had been raping and pillaging are disposed of.”

“Longclaw still needs cleaning.”

“That will keep until the morning. You should be seen to first.” She grasps a towel to bring it closer and asks, “May I assist you in bathing?” His mouth falls open. "Only if you wish, of course." 

He had not expected her to make the offer and yet he’s honestly not surprised upon reflection. She’s always been giving of herself for others. 

That night, Sansa sees him fully unclothed for the first time though they do not make love. He is not shy of her gaze. That had been the night he’d removed his shirt and let her look her fill the first time. Still, he likes that she doesn’t look at him like a curiosity, that she accepts his scars as part of him but not as defining him either. 

He’s aroused by the sweep of the wet cloth as she helps wash away the blood, dirt and sweat of the day but she does not make mention of his hard cock bobbing below the bath’s surface. 

She has her hair pulled back into an untidy bun and is wearing a very simple dress, not at all what a queen would typically wear. He loves when she shows him these parts of her that others do not get to see. 

He asks for a kiss at one point and gets one…and then another. She runs her fingers through his hair and beard, such tender affection in her eyes. She was worried about him. She’s taking care of him. His heart feels too large for his chest. 

She helps him into his bed as his fatigue and the poppy take effect.

Covering him with blankets and whispering sweet words he doesn’t quite catch, he mumbles apologies about not making a babe with her tonight. She chuckles and says they can see to that when he’s feeling better. He asks about paying her a visit tomorrow night if she should like that.

“I will look forward to it if you are well, my lord,” she says somewhat cheekily before she departs.

“I’m in love with you,” he murmurs in the dark once she is gone. 

**

“You’re beautiful. Gods, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as their mouths part again. 

"My breasts you mean?" she laughs.

"No...I mean, aye. Your teats are beautiful but then every bit of you is, Sansa. My lady is so beautiful." 

Jon thinks she's beautiful. Her heart sighs happily as her toes curl. He says other things, dirtier things that make her moan and writhe from where she's astride him. His hands cup her bottom and his dark eyes are back to watching the bouncing of her breasts. He licks his lips and looks up at her, the wolf in him alive and howling. 

And what does she do? She shamelessly rides him, calling his name in between grunts and pants like a wild thing. 

_“Like a horse, I said,”_ he’d teased earlier when he’d laid back and invited her up. 

Something new tonight. Two somethings new. 

She’d removed her shift for the first time instead of shoving it up to her hips though she still wears her stockings. His rough hands keep catching her stockings, leaving little snarls. She doesn't care. She'll sacrifice a pair of stockings to feel his hot hands on her this way. 

And the way he’d looked at her when she'd first removed her shift? Perhaps tomorrow she will greet him completely bare. She’ll lay upon the bed like some wanton thing, for that is what he’s made her, and wait for him to arrive. Maybe she’ll be touching herself when he does. He’ll growl and pounce. She's shriek and bare her throat and beg for his cock if she must. 

“Gods, Jon…” 

Between those thoughts and what they’re currently doing, she feels the tantalizing tingle of her building release nearing. 

“Beautiful…so beautiful,” he keeps repeating.

He doesn’t think her lacking, doesn’t look askance at her scars. Hopefully, doesn’t compare her in his mind to other women’s bodies he has known. 

That unwelcome thought is extinguished when he leans forward to capture one of her breasts again, suckling hungrily.

Waves of pleasure begin to course through her, every nerve awake. The sensation threatens to overwhelm her, shove her off that cliff into abyss even quicker than she’d thought.

He grips her hips hard, encourages her to go faster. “Aye, that’s right, Sansa. Come for me. Come!”

“I…I… _Ohgodsohgodsohgods_ …Jon, I…” 

_I love you,_ she thinks. _But I will not say it today. Another time,_ she tells herself as she spirals out into that nothingness of delight.

Jon’s nearing his own completion, that look of bliss and rapture she loves seeing when they couple approaching. She knows it well now. Sometimes, they talk or kiss for a while first but most nights, like tonight, he’s upon her no sooner than her door is barred, reaching for each other and tugging at clothes. 

With her peak fading, he rolls them swiftly and finds the hard, fast rhythm that suits him to finish. She squeals with renewed delight and wraps her legs around his waist. 

His features are all concentration and then they clear. His eyes close and he bites at his lip, grunting her name with his release. The familiar warmth of his seed filling her and that initial collapse as he catches his breath. She loves it all. She loves every bit of him.

But then comes the dreadful part. 

The huff, the movement, the _“I should go.”_

And tonight, she says something that she’s never said before. “Stay.” His eyes widen so she adds, “A little while,” and hopes it’s not too pitifully imploring. 

He nods, looks like he’s trying to read her and then nestles back down beside her, idly stroking her back as they begin to drift.

“Jon?” 

“Hmmm?” he replies, growing sleepy.

“Nothing.” 

_I love you,_ she screams with all her heart. 

But he doesn’t want that, does he? 

He gives her flowers, shares her meals, smiles and talks with her. He’s enjoying their time together, enjoying the pleasures of the flesh they share but she was a fool to let it go this far. The blue roses were never her favorites but he doesn’t know that. No one's ever going to give her the whole garden and he's sweet to do what he does. 

He protects her, fights for her, comforts her and keeps her company. He may very well father children on her. They share this intimacy but not all. No one’s ever going to give her all, her poor battered heart believes. 

It’s been ten days since his injury and he’s been in her bed every night since then. They should probably have been more discrete but it’s not easy. She’d been so frantic with worry when she’d heard he’d been injured. And they already knew that eventually everyone would know. A castle keeps no secrets indefinitely. 

She overheard some of the men talking about their lord commander’s nightly labors. 

_“At his queen’s command.”_

_“I wouldn’t mind such labors.”_

_“Aye but he’d better not be wenching elsewhere with a queen to please or our lord commander might find himself short two heads.”_

She would never, ever do that and she doesn’t really think they believe that of her but the ribald jesting had made her feel so empty inside. 

Then, there’d been the maids taking up her sheets for washing and not knowing she could hear them in the next room. 

_“At it every night, they are, and thinking no one notices.”_

_“They must be in love, don’t you think?”_

_“Perhaps but, if he really loved her, he’d ask her to marry him, wouldn’t he? Instead of possibly fathering a bastard on a queen. No honor in that at’all.”_

_“But she’s a queen. She could ask him.”_

_“And yet he don’t and she don’t and we’ll see what’s what in a few moons, won’t we?”_

_Yes, we will._

Soon she’ll know if she’s with child, with Jon’s child, or if her moonblood will arrive. What might happen in between confirmation of pregnancy, the birth and what comes after for them all is something that can be figured out later, she tells herself, knowing she needs rest. 

She lets herself nestle closer to him, taking comfort in him being here and the steady sound of his deep breathing even as his hand is still idly stroking her back. She loves him and he's here for now. For now, it's as if he's really hers. 

But when she wakes the next day, he's gone, leaving no trace. No kiss goodbye that she recalls and no sign that he was there barring the touch of stickiness between her thighs and on the sheets. 

Wait. It's more than a touch of stickiness. She lifts the covers and her heart sinks when she sees her moonblood has arrived. They haven't made a babe this time and how much longer will he be willing to go on with this? 

Or rather, how much longer can her heart stand having him whilst also _not_ having him? 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it got angsty there but I promise a happy ending. 
> 
> And Happy Valentine’s Day to you all ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings come up in this chapter and I used the inter-googles for them so don't @ me on different meanings you find elsewhere. However, since jonquils are used in the asoiaf universe, I'm calling them that but they're actually daffodils because of the meaning. Yes, I overthink these details sometimes.

This thing between them has shifted, changed. He knows it. He’s known it for a while. He wonders if she feels the same. 

He wanted to give her some seduction but she bats her eyes or smiles at him just so, teases him over some old thing and it is he who is seduced every time. 

There is no pretending otherwise…and yet they do.

Another moon of trying has come and nearly gone. Soon, they’ll know if they’ve succeeded this time. If _he’s_ succeeded. Secretly, he begins to fear that the maester’s concerns over men returned from the dead being capable of fathering children were not as misplaced as he’d originally thought.

_“Two moons of trying is not so much,”_ the maester had assured him when he’d worked up the nerve to ask about it.

But Sansa had been understandably disappointed after her moonblood arrived last time. She'd looked haunted...heartbroken. He doesn’t wish to see that look in her eye ever again. 

He had been disappointed as well. He’s begun to dream of that little babe he wishes to give her more and more often of late. A son or daughter, he doesn’t care. 

But what will Sansa want once he gives her that? She’s mentioned more than one. Perhaps three like in her visions. And after that? When will he cease to be welcome in the bed he has no desire to leave?

Or will that day occur at all? She enjoys the lovemaking at least. But could she ever love _him?_

The feast tonight had been a merry one with ale and wine pouring freely. Lords, ladies and knights from all over the North and some from the southern kingdom have made Winterfell swell in size. Many were in their cups. The jests had grown bawdier and wanton appetites had grown bolder. 

The comely serving wench with her golden ringlets and ample teats spilling from her top had sat herself in the lord commander’s lap when he’d asked for another drink.

_“Are you sure it’s only another ale you’re wanting, milord?”_ she’d asked with a sultry gaze.

He’d sensed more than seen Sansa stiffening beside him and wondered if she understood how he’d felt when she’d been dancing the handsome knight from the Vale earlier. However, by the time he’d given the wench a firm ‘no’ and got her off him, the queen had already made her excuses to the others and left the hall behind. 

It is the Queensguard’s duty to guard the queen, isn’t it? So he’d followed her to her chambers.

A feeble jest met with a huff from her. An accusation followed by a denial from him. A teary-eyed apology and a tender kiss of…well, there was nothing to forgive. Many more kisses after that. 

She had been jealous, he’d realized. That fed some quiet little hope and, secretly, there’s more than a shred of smug pleasure in knowing that she could feel jealous over him. He’s certainly grown dismayed over the number of marriage offers she receives regularly from men not tainted the way he is. If looks could kill, the handsome knight from the Vale would’ve been slain by the lord commander of his hostess’s guard in an instant. 

Regardless, a quarrel, a kiss and making up. It’s what lovers do, isn’t it? 

“Why would I want her…or any other woman when I have you?” 

He doesn’t truly have her the way he wishes to but that is another matter. He beds Sansa and no others. 

The teary look from earlier has vanished and in those blue eyes a different manner of fire blazes than the one of jealous ire. A wolf howls somewhere outside and there’s a thundering in his blood when she gives him a playful shove back on her bed. 

“Are you mine, Jon?” she asks, her voice far sultrier than the serving wench’s.

“Aye, all yours,” he answers because it’s true. 

She studies him for a moment. What thoughts race through that beloved mind? She loosens the ties of her dress and then switches to his clothes, the laces of his breeches. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Dropping to her knees with her beautiful, lush red hair tumbling down and thrown over one shoulder, she frees his cock and grasps it in her small hand. 

"May I do this?"

"Do what?" he breathes, licking his lips. He thinks he knows but then this will not make a babe. 

She runs her thumb over the tip, catching the smidgeon of liquid that pools there under a fingertip. Someone is panting. He realizes it's him. He pulls her hand free and she looks confused. But then he licks her palm and places it back where it was. 

"Like that. It's better when it's wet." 

Does he disgust her? 

No.

Sansa grins and tightens her grip just enough, begins to stroke. Her fist slides easily now, working over him until Jon's hips buck into her hand. He's back to panting. He loves it but…

“This won’t make a babe.”

She drops her hold, looks chastened. Why did he open his stupid mouth? 

“But I liked it…very much. Please, continue if you wish.”

A saucy grin. She takes him in hand again, watching his every expression as she works him up and leaves him hard and throbbing. 

His shirt has been removed. His chest is flushed. The scars burn angrily but Sansa doesn't mind them. He doesn't either with her. The room is chillier than normal and his lips feel chapped. But who can care when Sansa is doing this to him?

"Does it feel good, Jon?"

"Aye," he mutters, eyes locked on hers and wound too tight to say more. 

"Can I..." She hesitates, blushes...licks her own lips.

"Can you what?"

"Can I use my mouth?"

Jon's cock pulses and his nostrils flare. He feels light-headed. He is indisputably hers. "I’m…no one’s ever…Would you really want to?" 

“I do but only if you would like it.”

“I’d like it. I’m certain I will love it,” he adds, chuckling.

But then, she takes him into her warm, wet mouth and it's more than he'd expected, more intense than he'd thought. He hisses, claws at the bedding beneath him, struggles not to grasp her hard and fuck her mouth. Filling her cunt is one pleasure. This is another. Related but not entirely the same. 

She kisses him, licks him, sucks. His cock from tip to stem, his balls. She leaves no part of him untouched. She’s patient, meticulous. Sansa was always such a perfect girl, so attentive in her lessons. 

A shiver of something dark and dirty shoots through him with that thought and he quivers as she sucks him in as far as she can. He feels resistance and she makes a little gagging noise. He might faint. Seven hells, she'll wring him dry. His fingers find their way into her hair but he won’t hold her in place. He’ll let her set the pace. He won’t pull hair…not too hard anyway. 

'Gods' is the last discernable word he speaks before it’s all pathetic gibberish as she finds her rhythm, her hand holding him at the base and her tongue swirling, her head bobbing up and down like he's some treat and blue eyes always looking up at him from where she’s knelt between his legs. His queen is sucking his cock and kneeling before him and…

_“Fuck…fuck…Unngh!"_

His seed his lost to her hungry little mouth this time instead of her womb but, when she gives him a wicked grin, he cannot care.

“Get up here,” he commands, pulling her off her knees and into his lap. 

He kisses her, tasting his salty release and the Arbor Gold she’d had earlier on her tongue. 

“Did you like that, Lord Commander?” she teases.

“I loved it.” _I love you._

He flips them over, earning a delighted screech from her and avoiding saying what perhaps he should. 

“My turn to taste you, my lady,” he tells her before doing just that.

***

An hour before dawn he rises like always, his bare feet regretting the cold stone floor and his heart regretting leaving her side even more. They'd loved each other twice over the course of the night after he'd pleased his lady with his mouth. And, as pleasing as it was, he could not help feeling a sense of foreboding in their lovemaking, knowing that she will soon bleed or she will not. Is it an ending or a beginning? 

He hears an early bird chirping, the day's first. He's always left her chambers well before now but, between the ale and being so utterly sated and wrung out by Sansa, he's slept late. He wishes he could stay.

Does it really matter if the lord commander spends the whole night in the queen's chambers? They're both grown, they're not married to anyone else, she's the queen and no man outranks him in the guard. The castle already talks of them anyway he suspects but they still keep up the pretense that it's otherwise. Why do they keep doing that? Why doesn't he just tell her what he feels? 

Because he's afraid of course, afraid she'll never feel the same. 

"Sleep well, my lady. I'll see you later," he whispers, lightly stroking her hair back, not wishing to wake her but unable to leave without a caress and a word. He's said something every night when he leaves like this. She just usually sleeps through it. 

But before he reaches the door, he hears her murmur sleepily, "Why do you always leave?"

"Because I won't have them whispering about you." _Even though they do._ "I'll be back later." 

"Everyone leaves. No one's ever going to stay," she mumbles sadly before she's fallen back asleep.

He stands there frozen in place as his heart cracks and bleeds at her words. What is he doing to her? To himself? 

The next morning, Jon mulls over her words again. _'Everyone leaves. No one's ever going to stay.'_ It reminds him of something else she'd said long ago on the edge of despair. _'No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.'_

He managed to fulfill his promise and prove her wrong in that. He wants to prove her wrong in this. _I get to be right once every five years or so over something at least, don't I?_

_'You don't have to love me. No one will ever marry me for love.'_

That is just so wrong. 

But what can he do for his lady? How can he prove he's not leaving her? That he never wishes to? 

_No matter how nimbly you make use of your tongue, you've failed to speak your heart. That is the problem._

Gifts of flowers, companionship and physical pleasure with the hopes of making a babe are all very well but there's more he could give her. He'd told the maester he'd give her all she'd been denied. There's more to give.

When a note is passed to him in Sansa's hand saying that her moonblood has arrived and she fears she will be indisposed tonight for company, he is disappointed for them both. But it is her post script which makes his heart stutter to a stop.

_I don't want you to feel forced to keep doing this, Jon. If you'd rather stop, I understand. Love is not required for this but hearts can get tangled in it anyway. You're free to do what you wish. Just know that I'll always appreciate every bit of yourself you've been willing to give._

His throat swells and his vision blurs momentarily. Does she want to stop? He doesn't think so. It's certainly not what he wants. They're going to make a babe. They're going to...he's going to offer her all she's been denied. 

Hearts can get tangled in this. That they can. Is hers? His certainly is. 

She appreciates every bit of himself he's given? But there is more. She can have it all, all of him. 

The wooing and seduction worked too well and both ways. At least, he hopes they worked both ways. He'll soon find out, he supposes. 

Determined, he reaches for his own bit of parchment and scribbles a reply: 

_I am sorry if you are feeling unwell today but I have no desire to stop. Instead of meeting tonight, may I have the pleasure of your company in the godswood this afternoon instead? I’ll provide a simple meal and Ghost will be our guard. I should dearly like the opportunity to speak with you if nothing else._

He sends the note and then goes to the glass gardens. Not to steal more winter roses but to consult with the gardener.

***

She tells herself there is no need to feel nervous as she enters the godswood that afternoon. She is only meeting Jon there to talk and, while they do not typically meet in the godswood to speak anymore, it’s not as if they haven’t before now. 

Her note though, oh how she'd agonized over it this morning as she'd tearfully wrote those words releasing him if he wishes to be released. She doesn't want to lose him, to lose this feeling of being loved. But if it's not real, she cannot hold onto it indefinitely. Pretending her feelings might someday be returned will ultimately destroy her even more than a broken heart. And, it's not as though it's never been broken before and yet it still beats. 

But something feels a little different about all this. He spoke of providing a small meal. Does he plan for them to eat out of doors? There is something terribly romantic in the notion. This must be part of his wooing. He's slacked off on that some. Perhaps her not conceiving makes him wish to redouble his efforts. 

She worries something is wrong with her to be honest. She never conceived with the other one who took her as it pleased him every night. But the maester says to have patience and he sees no reason why she cannot conceive. 

But what if the old man is only being kind? What if she is barren? It's not as if a fertile womb would make her more of a woman or a queen than an infertile one but why did the visions come at all if it was only to tempt and torment her? Why do the gods rejoice in being so cruel? No little babe to cherish and no man to love or love her in return. 

Jon looks so thoughtful of late when they couple. What is he thinking? He must wonder if these pleasing games are going to accomplish anything. When will he grow tired of her and leave for good? Is she fated to be alone with only visions in the end?

She wipes her eyes and pushes aside her melancholy. Her moonblood increases such feelings at times. She is a rational woman, a queen and she has her people, her home and her duty. Jon is only part of her life...but he's a part she loves most tenderly. 

When she enters the glade where the heart tree awaits, Jon is already there with Ghost standing like a sentinel as promised. The direwolf pads over to her, an affectionate nuzzle and then lopes a little distance away to sit back on his haunches once more to watch over them.

There’s a blanket spread out across the carpet of dried red leaves. Does he mean to initiate more lessons in seduction today?

“I’m having my moonblood as I said in my note.”

He smiles and guides her to the blanket. “I know. I can read. I’ll say that having lived amongst the Free Folk on different occasions, your moonblood would not deter me from bedding you if that was something you wanted.” She gasps, utterly scandalized by the notion and he chuckles. “But that is not the point of the blanket or this meeting. Will you please sit, my lady?”

She agrees. As she’s arranging her skirts about her and finding a position that doesn’t involve a rock or root digging into her bottom, Jon fetches a large hamper-style basket from behind the tree. 

“What’s that?”

“Our meal and some other things.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll see,” he grins, so alluring with his eyes crinkled up at the corners. 

The first of spring’s fresh berries, a pot of cream and one of butter, a loaf of dark bread which is still warm, a medium-sized crock of venison stew with hunks of potatoes, peas and onions in it. 

“There’s wine as well but I only managed to secure one mug in my haste. There’s also an herbal remedy here in case you are experiencing any discomfort. The maester said it could be helpful for ladies during this time.” His cheeks are adorably flushed as he offers it to her. 

“Oh…well, thank you, Jon.” 

She is familiar with the draught and quickly downs it to combat her aching tummy which is fluttering for other reasons at the moment. Her cousin has shown her kindness before and been concerned with her needs but she hadn’t expected this level of attentiveness. 

He pours the wine into the single mug and offers her the first sip. 

“So, you call this a small meal, do you?”

A sly grin. “My appetite grew as I filled my hamper.” He pulls out one more item, wrapped in a cloth.

“Lemon cakes,” she says happily. “I didn’t think there were any lemons to be had at the moment.”

“They arrived yesterday from that Dornish prince.” He scowls at the mere mention of the other man, causing her to quake with silent mirth. “We should try and grow our own lemons here. He thinks to woo you with lemons but I have usurped him with lemon cakes.”

“Well done,” she says, raising her mug to him in salute. She catches a bit of color still in Jon’s basket. “What else do you have there?”

He closes the lid with a sneaky smile. “Later. Let’s eat a bite, shall we?”

If she’d expected some serious discussion or feared that perhaps Jon has decided to take her up on her offer to discontinue, she is mistaken. Their conversation stays light though they speak of varying things; the repairs at the mill, the new lambs in Wintertown and the wolves howling in the Wolfswood. 

“Let us hope the lambs stay clear of there, hmm?”

She smiles and agrees, wondering what all of this is about. Finally, with a bite of lemon cake in her mouth and enough wine in her veins to loosen her tongue, she asks.

“I realized I needed to tell you something, something important,” he says, looking down at the closed hamper. “I was trying to ease you into intimacy but without giving you all. I was picking you the winter roses that grow in the glass gardens but without considering their meaning. I suppose you already knew that every flower has some meaning?”

“I did.” 

“No one really talked that much of flowers when we were training with swords and such.”

“I suppose not,” she snickers. 

“Anyway, I learned what the winter roses, which were supposedly my mother’s favorites, mean and, while they’re pretty, I think you deserve better than that.”

“Oh…” Her heart thumps with curiosity and hope. 

“They symbolize rarity, wildness and the unattainable. Knowing what little I do of her story, I think they probably suited her but my mother’s song was a sad one and I think there’s better ones for us.”

“Better ones for us?” she asks, emphasizing the 'us.'

“Aye, for _us_ …if you’ll allow.” 

She smiles feeling a little dazed and nods. 

“Of course, not everything blooms at once in the glass garden and some times we must wait. That’s true of life as well, isn’t it? I believe we'll have our little babe someday despite no luck this time." Her heart is pounding so now. She was right. His sweetness, his kindness has been her undoing. "The gardener instructed me on what they all mean and gave me what I needed so we might sow our own little plot of soil in the glass garden for the flowers that suit us and enjoy them in their turn.”

He lifts the lid of the hamper, reaches in and pulls out a small sack with a yellow mark upon it.

“These will be jonquils. They are for rebirth and new beginnings, something I believe we’re both looking for.” He lays the sack in her lap and pulls out a clump of heather next. “For good luck and to show admiration. We’ve had our share of bad luck, so why not some good? And I hope you know that I admire you, Sansa. Very much.”

Her cheeks grow warm and her tears and fears from earlier seem quite misplaced. 

He lays the heather in her lap and pulls more sacks of seeds, sprouts and bulbs, describing the meaning of each and why he chose it for them including the iris for wisdom and trust. “I could use some more of the former and we both must remember the importance of the latter. We’re stronger together.”

“We are.” 

Nodding, he pulls out two final items and closes the hamper again. He hands her a beautiful red rose, no doubt the pride of the gardener's labors. 

“I don’t want the blue rose of the unattainable, Sansa. It's you I want you. Red roses are for true love, romance and passion and that’s…that’s what I want you to have, what I mean to give you.”

“Oh Jon…” She's trembling and unable to sit still. She crawls into his lap, an awkward scramble but he doesn't care. His arms circle her waist as she embraces him, tears wetting her cheeks 

His voice is fetchingly gruff and his eyes darken when he tells her, “I’m offering you more than wooing, Sansa. More than seduction. I'm offering you this heart of mine, battered old thing that it is. I love you, Sansa.” 

“I love you, too,” she sobs, overwhelmed with pent-up emotion. 

And when his eyes widen as if he questions her words, she cups his face softly and with so much affection and presses her lips to his to reinforce the statement. 

They continue kissing, lying back on the blanket with Jon's warmth to cover her. She doesn't think she's known such joy since her childhood though there is nothing childish to the heat between them or the deep affection she feels gazing up at him with bits of sunlight dappling his dark hair. 

And as they kiss, she would swear she can hear them again. Somewhere not too far away, the children are laughing together, some mischievous mirth. They are out of sight but they are there, just waiting for their time. Oh, it may be nothing but the breeze through the leaves but she knows what her heart believes.

And in between those kisses, promises and plans are made. He's not going to leave her bed in the night again. Not when it's to be his bed, too. 

As they are packing up the remnants of their meal and their future garden, she realizes he never spoke of the last sack of seeds and asks him of them.

“Those we will plant and see how they grow and then we’ll speak of their meaning,” he says mysteriously.

And so, Sansa decides she will wait and see what flowers their plot may yield when the time comes.

***

With their family present?

Regrettably, no.

In the godswood?

Yes.

A snowy night?

No.

A spring day instead?

Yes.

A perfect day, the sort that fills a person’s daydreams finds Queen Sansa Stark dressed as befits a royal bride. In truth, it is her coronation dress with some alterations given that she had no wish to wait and make a new one. With a glad heart and her ladies following, she walks to meet her third (and final) bridegroom beneath the heart tree. 

The guests from a fortnight ago have departed so, in addition to her household, there's some assorted Free Folk who have chosen to remain this side of the Wall, Lord and Lady Cerwyn, the Tallhearts and the Reeds who are able to make the journey to bear witness to the joining of two houses…or just one house to be honest. Another dragon marries a wolf and yet he was a dragon raised by wolves with no wish to be anything other than part of this pack. 

The bastard name he’s carried for so long and the birth name he barely knew and ultimately rejected are laid aside today as he claims his queen for his bride and will henceforth be known as Jon Stark. She can tell he’s a little overcome the first time someone calls him that no sooner than the ceremony is done. 

“All my life, I wanted to be a…”

“You always were one.” She nods to Ghost as her final piece of evidence. The old gods sent the wolves to them and one for Jon as well. What more proof did one need? 

She gives him a heated kiss next to keep his sparkling grey eyes from overflowing. She knows she’ll cry as well if he does and she doesn’t want to cry today. They have supped enough on tears.

The celebration runs into the evening hours with the golden sun dipping low. If any are surprised to see to two formerly supposed half-siblings drinking their mulled wine from the same cup and clasping hands during the meal, they do not show it. 

Loyal to the bone, Howland Reed begs to make the toast when the newlywed couple grows impatient to leave their guests behind. “To the queen and king!”

Jon glances her way swiftly, eyes questioning. She knows what he’d expected; royal consort or some such thing. But if a king may rule and call his wife a queen, why can’t a queen call her husband a king without losing her authority? Winter may still be coming but that does not mean nothing ever changes, does it? 

“I may rule but you were born to be a king. You were my king once and so you are still in my heart,” she whispers in his ear as the others (admittedly, a touch slowly) take up the cheer. “Take comfort though, Jon,” she adds, giving him a playful look, “I will still gladly see you on your knees for me in our chambers when it suits us.”

She gets a wry smirk in reply and a raspy promise. “That will be my first order of business when we reach our chambers, wife.”

“Wife? Oh, I like the sound of that.”

“More than Your Grace?” he teases.

“From you, my love, of course…but I will still be your lady when you wish to practice wooing me.”

“I don’t intend to ever stop that, my lady.”

***

There was nothing lacking before in anyway when it came to their nocturnal activities but there's a difference now that their love is acknowledged and requited. It fulfills him and there’s this _assurance_ to it. It’s real and meant to last. Even at his most confident whilst wooing her, he’d had those doubts eating at him. No more. 

It’s not simply that she’s his wife now, although there is no small trace of pride in that for him, but that their love is an admitted thing and true, that they love each other openly, without fear and without shame.

And there's this fantastic _intimacy_ in every day affections now, no dangerous games or deceit between them. This gentle side of loving leaves him breathless. It's something he's never known in a romance until Sansa. 

“May I?”

She looks over her shoulder and smirks when she sees the brush in his hand. She turns back to face the mirror, gives her head a shake and sighs, “If you will.”

Does she like it?

She does.

Would his fellow guards or his former brothers in the Night’s Watch laugh their asses off if they saw Jon brushing out his wife’s hair before bed with a besotted smile upon his face? 

Undoubtedly. 

Does he care?

Not remotely. 

He brushes and she sings softly for him, both finding the activity comforting and relaxing after their day. No, it's not every night. There are nights they are too ravenous for each other the moment the door is barred. But some nights, like tonight after the queen has taken a nice hot bath, they pamper each other in these sweet little ways. They can be the lord and lady of this castle and nothing more in these times. 

When her hair shines brilliantly like a finely polished copper kettle in the firelight, he lays the brush aside, pulls her to her feet and places his hands upon her waist. 

“Well, my lady?” he queries. 

Oh, there's that glint in her eye. Tonight, his she-wolf is feeling a bit ravenous after all. “Yes,” she replies before they both attack the ties of her dressing robe.

She bites at his bottom lip, not enough to draw blood but enough to let him know. She's game for something at touch rougher tonight...just not too rough. He’s always game for whatever she is but mindful of making her feel safe. And knowing that she feels safe enough to ask, to experiment with him after everything, never fails to make him that much more in love with her.

Within minutes, she's upon the bed, completely bare and on all fours with her lovely ass high in the air, taunting him. He's so hard, throbbing for her like he's not had a woman in five years or more instead of just this morning. She gives him a wicked look back over her shoulder with that freshly-brushed hair hanging down, wiggles her ass and he can hardly see straight. 

"Show me you're my wolf this time," she commands and he scrambles up behind her to obey. 

Jon's breath hitches in his throat and he swallows hard, running his hands up and down her calves. He knows her well and yet she can still surprise him. Wrapping one hand around her hip and using his other to guide himself inside her, they both groan once he's fully seated. She's warm and wet and fits him like a glove. She arches her back and he just marvels at the vision that is his wife for a moment. 

His hips snap experimentally, once...twice. A pillow muffles her moan but he moves carefully, mindful of any lurking shadows. 

"Harder, Jon...take me like you mean it."

Oh, those old lurking shadows can fuck right off tonight. 

Jon smirks as he leans over her, molding the front of his body against her back, knotting a long red ribbon of hair around his wrist. "Like I mean it?" He punctuates each syllable with a thrust, the front of his thighs slapping against the back of hers and her bottom. "Don't I always?" When she doesn't answer right away, Jon gives her hair a small tug.

"Gods, yes," she cries, grinding down hard.

One hand comes free of her hip, slithers around to her front, his fingers probing for her little bud, eager to make her peak. He pounds into her, his fingertips leaving marks upon her hip. They'll linger signaling that she’s his which admittedly feeds a sinfully proud beast within. She whimpers his names, her hands clenching the sheets above her head as he feels her cunt beginning to flutter and pulse around him, eager to milk him dry of his seed. His only complaint with this position is not getting to watch her lovely teats bounce with each thrust. 

“Jon… _ohhh_ , Jon…”

“Aye, that’s right. You’re mine. You like it when I make you mine don’t you, my lady?”

An undignified groan, a relieved-sounding sob as she peaks and then, “Yes, yes. All yours! Gods, Jon!”

Afterwards, in the hazy, drunken period post bliss, they hold each other, grinning like naughty children and laughing at random. It’s been over a moon since they wed and he doesn’t know how he can continuously feel this happy, making love every night, waking with her beside him every morning, spending their days talking, sharing, working, loving, kissing and planning for the future. 

"You'd once said you didn't like being taken that way," he whispers as she's nestled close. He doesn't wish to raise old demons but he wants to know she was alright with it.

"I didn't then but it's not the same at all with you. Nothing compares to how it is with you. I have loved every way you've loved me, Jon." Her fingertips caress his bare chest, tickle him lightly, trace one of his scars and she presses a kiss to it. "Besides, that position for loving may be one of the better options for us before long." 

"A better option?"

She lifts her eyes brows. 

It’s been over a moon since they wed and…

“Sansa?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s been over a moon since we wed.”

“I know,” she murmurs, happily.

“And we waited about a fortnight to wed after that day in the godswood.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And, you’ve not bled since then…have you?”

She rolls to face him fully, eyes alert and smile gone from satisfied to wistful. “I have not.” She takes his hand in hers, moves it down to her flat belly and says, “We must wait and see to be sure still.”

He thinks his heart may burst when he nods. He wants to stand upon the bed and shout loud enough for the whole castle to hear him. Instead a sob escapes and then a joyful laugh. 

She brushes his hair back tenderly. "Which will come first, do you think, husband? The boys or the little girl?"

"I don't know. Either. I will be happy." 

She agrees as he pulls her close, kisses his wife and hopes.

***

Ghost has been following her everywhere today. Feeling exhausted and irritable, she’s tried shooing him away like her she had her husband earlier but the wolf was even more stubborn than the man. 

“Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re about, Jon Stark. Warging into Ghost to stalk my steps when you should be doing something useful,” she grumbles.

Ghost whimpers and she relents, giving him an affectionate nuzzle.

When the pains come a couple of hours later though, she is grateful for the wolf’s attentiveness. Jon knows even quicker than he would’ve just by word of mouth. 

He’s been seeing to more and more matters for her as her confinement approaches and he will naturally be acting in her stead whilst she recovers. The North has a long memory and many of the memories of Jon Snow are good but not all and there is a deep-seated distrust of any with dragon blood so he’s been stepping carefully when it comes to the council. In time though, they will see. 

None of that matters today. 

There’s a hot trickle and then a bit of a gush between her thighs and she starts to panic. It’s silly. She’s wanted this so badly for nearly a year but now it’s here and it’s new and frightening and…

“I want my husband!” she sobs to the two ladies supporting her.

“And he is here,” comes the beloved, raspy voice in reply.

The maester arrives soon after along with the Free Folk woman who Jon had sought out for his wife’s labor. He likes the maester and trusts his learning but Jon has been fearful of this and wanted more than one experienced set of hands at the birth. Quietly, he’d confessed his worries and she knows his mother’s fate plays into that. She’s been his rock of confidence throughout her pregnancy just as he has been attentive to her every comfort. 

As the pains draw closer together and she is wringing with sweat and has been told she will soon begin to push, the maester asks if the king intends to remain for the birth.

“Some men grown squeamish and others do not care to-”

His mouth closes again at Jon’s glare and Ghost’s growl. She does ask him to move behind her though, acting as her pillow so she may take comfort in him supporting her when the most difficult work begins.

“I love you,” he murmurs in her ear. “You can do this, my lady, I know.”

She nods and wishes to thank him but it comes out as a savage grunt of pain.

But an hour later, when their newborn son is placed in her arms, she tearfully thanks him for what he’s given her, this precious little babe she will love all her life, the son who will be heir to House Stark and the North. “It was our original agreement after all but you’ve wound up giving me so much more, Jon.”

“Do not thank me, Sansa. I would rather thank you,” he whispers, kissing their babe’s tiny head with tears shining in his eyes. “Thank you for giving me everything I ever wanted and never believed I could have.”

***

The next six years of Queen Sansa Stark’s reign seem to pass more swiftly than the first six. Time seems to speed up as we age some say but it also flies when we are happy and no one can doubt that the queen is most happy. 

Following the birth of Prince Robb came Prince Rickon a year later. Three years after that Princess Lyarra was born who has her father wrapped around her little finger even more so than his sons some whisper. 

Sansa’s visions seem to have come true. _Though perhaps there was more to them than what I saw,_ she thinks, grinning. Another spring has come and new life is on the horizon once more. 

The North and it’s people carry on after the hard times which will be mostly history lessons for these children. The Queen in the North and her king rule wisely and well from Winterfell, enjoying peace and prosperity…and flowers.

The first several moons of their marriage they’d tended their plot in the glass gardens by hand, enjoying the satisfaction to be found in working the soil between their fingers and watering their little sprouts before the birth of their first child. They have never ceased to tend it. It is something just for them. No, something just for their family. And now, the children help in their turn as well.

But at present, the queen is in the kitchens and thanks the cook and her helpers for their assistance. 

“Help me with this hamper, boys,” Sansa tells her sons. 

They whoop and race to join her, taking the hamper between them which she has made sure not to fill too heavy. They slowly carry it across the courtyard and towards the godswood on sturdy little legs with Ghost and three pups following. 

That was a surprise when Ghost left them after Lya’s birth for a time. Jon had kept reassuring her (which was his means of reassuring himself no doubt) that the direwolf would return. And he did a year later with a she-wolf of his own. These pups are their first litter, two males and a female. 

Sansa spreads out the blanket and then urges the boys to fetch their father and sister who were stopping by the glass gardens on their way. 

“Here we are! Papa brought flowers,” Lya tells her, running to join them on little legs that seem to move swifter every day.

He has indeed. Her handsome husband is still determined to woo her every chance he gets and today he carries a bloom from their little part of the glass garden. 

“What was blooming today, my love?” she asks, getting a kiss upon the forehead as the children play a game of tag around the heart tree with pups nipping at their heels.

“Our very first orange blossom.” 

“Oh!” Sansa exclaims, delighted. 

That final sack of seeds which Jon had mysteriously kept back that day in the godswood had been orange seeds from Dorne. They'd hoped to grow the first tree of its kind in the North though the odds had been against them. Indeed, the little fledgling tree has known its struggles but then, haven’t we all? The roots were strong and the good soil of Winterfell and the waters from the hot springs have nursed it until today it has yielded a beautiful flower and perhaps it will yield some tasty fruit in time. 

Sansa smiles, taking the fragrant blossom in her hands with reverence as Jon sits down behind her and covers her swelling belly with his hands. 

“The orange blossom may symbolize eternal love and marriage, the gardener says. And also… _fruitfulness_ ,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows.

Her laughter fills the godswood as he presses his lips to her throat before calling the children to join them and enjoy a bite to eat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
